#horangi mwii

[diejager]

may i ask what's your thoughts on yandere horangi but like specifically just him (Konig excluded pls and thank you 😂)

Yandere Horangi

Headcanon

Pairing: Yan!Horangi x reader

Cw: yandere behaviour, possessive behaviour, DARKFIC, non-con touching, punishment, forced relationship, tell me if I missed anything. Wc: 694

Horangi’s a cold and sarcastic guy, but Yan!Horangi has the added bonus of being mean and stupidly possessive.

Yan!Horangi could be laughing at something you did, be it a clumsy mistake or something he deemed ridiculous. He confronts you, glaring down at you with narrowed eyes filled with dark intent, something dangerous that has you shuddering, but you can’t talk back to him when he looks so menacing in his get up: mask pulled up to his nose, eyes gleaming under his red-rimmed glass, hood shrouding his face in darkness and his body exhuming death with his simple and minimalistic choice of clothes.

Yan!Horangi is cruel with his remarks, he demeans you, breaks you down for him to build up to something more profitable, more likeable to him. He prefers doing things hands-on, as he’s always done, moving you around as he deems fit, one hand on your shoulder, on your waist or the small of your back, anywhere he can touch you.

Yan!Horangi might be means and degrading, but it’s his way of showing KorTac who you belong to. As stated previously, he’s very physical, he isn’t shy of publicly touching you, manhandling you to his pleasure in front of his coworkers, uncaring of your enflamed and shamed flushed cheeks. He’s not bothered by how embarrassed and undignified you feel, you scratch and hiss, fight him whenever you can. He likes the fight, that feisty gleam in your eyes when you glare at him through your lashes and pouty lips, staring up at him with a subtle tremor.

Despite Yan!Horangi’s usual rough handling, he can be gentle, helpful and insightful. He might help you master or better understand a certain skill. If you have issues with a certain gun, he’d stand behind you, chest flushed to your back, hip to ass and him breathing down your neck. He takes training very personally, he expects you to commit to mind every word, every advice and every compliment, but he knows he’s demanding too much from you. He’s easy to understand, teaching with simple wording and visual cues to follow.

That, however, doesn’t stop Yan!Horangi from punishing you if you do something wrong, pulling you to his room to reprimand you for disappointing him. He has you kneeling before him, hands on your thighs, eyes downcast and lower lip pulled between your teeth. It’s a power play for him, to show you who’s in control in this self-proclaimed relationship he forced you into.

Yan!Horangi treats you as a pet behind closed doors, holding you on his lap, fingers carding through your hair and making you abide to his many rules. He’s finicky about it, easy to anger when you’re not doing things by his book. Although he has a few dozens, he only pushes for a few: don’t let other people touch you; don’t talk to anyone for too long; don’t spend too much time with someone who isn’t him, especially alone; don’t forget that you belong to him; and don’t forget to listen to his words. He’s especially hard on you to let people know that you’re his.

Yan!Horangi doesn’t want to be cared for, he has the money, the strength and the independence to live on his own, learning from his past gambling issues. He wants to care for you, that’s all he truly wants, to love and care for his little pet. Despite his wish to lock you up, to keep you to himself and deprive the world of your presence, he’s whimsically desperate, like a feline marking its possession, he likes when you smile, your crazed gleam when you return from a successful mission with him or another operator.

After all, Yan!Horangi is as in love with you sweet and submissive side, obediently listening to him after he pinned you to the ground, hissing at you, as he’s obsessed with your feral smirk, grinning as you cleave a man in half with a bloodthirsty gleam in your eyes, staring at him. You’re his pretty, pedigree cat, clean and posh, listening to him when he asked, yet bratty when you felt like it.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

[notknickers]

i found this photo in the wild and i couldn't resist messing with it.

it's them!!!

👑🐯

[l4xu0riipng]

Drew Horangi unmasked + invoker and bluegiragis Ghost !! Not tagging her bc talented people intimidate me and im scared aaaa anyway the monsters au is kewl <33 love her art! I can’t fuckin draw hoods nor Ghosts balaclava super well so forgive the poor quality i beg !! Ty for lookin 💞💞 u r awesome

[quozacheese]

körangi, everyone?

[thisnoah]

Pancake

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Big Guy Big Belly

König is a big man, and with a big man comes a big appetite. We’re talking about a 6’10 man constantly maintaining his peak physique. He needs to be consuming as many calories and as much protein, carbs, fats, fiber and more to keep himself in fit and fighting shape.

At the canteen, he’s a nightmare. I bet that people rush to the cafeteria just to make sure they get something to eat before the big man on base rolls up. He’ll clear out the bins if he gets a chance. There’s a rumour on base that the reason König fought so hard to climb the ranks so quickly was just to be able to eat more and get away with it. Little do they know that they’re absolutely right, but König will never say that out loud. Ever. There’s some secrets you take to your grave. 

Either way, König is a menace in the canteen. He’ll pile his plate as high as he can when he gets a chance. He’s packing away all he can get in the shortest amount of time he can, and everyone has to suffer for it. The worst part is that everyone has to rush to get to the caf before König, and König knows exactly what others are doing, so he’s in a daily race against the entire base to eat his fill. It’s always a photo-finish to see who gets to the cafeteria first.  König currently has been slacking, so he’s not been eating like he normally has. Is he mad? Not really. He’ll clean out the snack cart later. 

He’s a monster late at night. Everyone knows that you need to leave the big man to his snacks, lest you face the wrath of the colossus on base. Well, wrath in a peculiar way. He just gets quiet and angry, but it’s still not a fun experience to try and fight him for a sandwich. If you take the last egg salad sandwich you’ll be at the top of his shit list for the next week. Don’t even think he won’t track you down. He’ll throw around his rank just to get his hands on the poor bastard. Nobody is safe, either.

Stiletto only once took the last pudding cup. Once. She never made that mistake again. For a week he was giving her dirty looks over a cold shoulder as he bumbled down the hall. She eventually had to give in and sacrifice a desert to be able to get back in his good graces. She still thinks he’s a massive bitch because of it. And you know what? She’s right. Everybody knows she’s right, König included, but he’ll keep going after whoever ‘steals’ ‘his’ snacks. They get along a bit better now that they’ve both advanced in rank and worked together, but there was a good period of time where Stiletto had to sleep with one eye open.

It gets a bit better for everyone when König finally finds a partner and doesn’t stay on base so often. Everyone takes a moment to pray for the poor soul who has to cook for König whenever he gets home from deployment.

See, during deployment, König can’t be such a massive bitch about food. He gets his rations, and that’s that. He can’t steal from anybody else, so he gets stuck with these pitiful MREs that barely fill him up. It’s miserable, and he’s losing weight like crazy when on the field. He’s running on fumes and burning calories like crazy as he’s risking his life out there. It’s gotten to a point where König has taken to eating with hostages post-rescue to ‘help them feel safer’ (read: get more food into his gullet). Thankfully, he puts his best foot forward when dealing with victims of trauma and ensures that he has somebody else do all the socializing while he plays with the kids after dinner. Apparently, after the inevitable shower of tears whenever kids have to face König, he becomes pretty popular. They love to use him as a jungle gym (and make fun of him) and he’s just happy to get more to eat. He’ll take being called ‘bigger than even my dad!’, being told ‘you’re weird’ or being asked ‘why are you so big and scary all the time?’ any day for a little extra to eat. He can tolerate a few kids. He won’t ever admit that hanging around them makes him want some kids of his own, or at least not to Horangi, who’s already teasing König about being a surrogate father to the kids. König tells him to keep it to himself, but Horangi is already buying things for the baby shower.

Once König finally comes home, that’s when all Hell breaks loose. This man has been starving and he needs food NOW. He won’t take no for an answer. If you don’t have something prepared, he’ll be ordering a massive order of takeout the likes of which you’ve never seen before in your life. He’ll hit multiple places on his way back to your place if he doesn’t think you’ve been able to get something together for him. If you can’t cook, he won’t even bother telling you to cook for him and just focus on getting a whole banquet of junk food ready for when he arrives home. He brings the pizzas in the door before he even brings in his own bags. You’ll have to go out and grab his bag as he sets up his personal buffet table. The worst part is despite how much he can shove down, he always buys more than he can eat, so you’ve got a couple of days worth of food to shove in the fridge at the end of the night.

If you can cook, this is a multi-day experience. Is it rewarding? Absolutely. Is it painful? Abso-fucking-lutely. He’s got you slaving for hours a day just to get him a nice home cooked meal. You’ll be going all out to get him a big enough meal. We’re thinking a tray of mac and cheese, a whole roast chicken, easily a handful of loaded baked potatoes. If you have something from your traditional cuisine, he’s not picky, he’ll gobble it up in a heartbeat. Knowing you made it for him is more than enough for him. Food is the way to a man’s heart, some say, and König will never let you go if you treat him like the king he is.

The good thing about cooking König such a big meal is that he gives back. He’s not a fan of cooking, but for the next few days he’ll take over cooking and cleaning in the kitchen. It’s just an easy way for him to give back, you know? He can’t thank you enough with words, so why not with actions?

But the best part of König giving back is that he’s an excellent cook. He cooks mostly traditional food from his culture, but he’s down for some french or italian cooking if you’re into it. He can make a mean lasagne. He does not skimp on the cheese, this man. No he’s a cheese fiend. If you’re lactose intolerant, you’ve got another thing coming for you. He will hand feed you lactaid just for the meal. If you have a dietary restriction, he’ll learn how to cook your types of meals in abundance. He’s perfect that way. Vegetarian, vegan, keto, no matter what, he’s got your back. He’s learned how to make an excellent spread for a dinner party, and part of learning to cater to others is to work around other people’s diets; his mother drilled that rule into his little head as a kid. He does it without complaint, too. For at least a week after coming home, he’s just so happy to be around food in abundance again. He’s absolutely thriving in the kitchen before the thrill wears off and he’s back to avoiding cooking like the plague again.

He loves to eat, but usually hates to cook. He’ll mostly eat takeout until he actually has to eat a nutritious meal again for a change. It’s not that cooking is awful, it’s just that he hates doing the dishes. He’d be far more inclined if he didn’t have to do the dishes afterwards. If you take over dishes, he’ll definitely step up his game for the both of you.

All in all, König loves to eat. He’s a big man with a bigger appetite, as hard as that is to believe. Once he retires he has to learn to cut back a fair bit, but he never loses his taste for sweets and snacks. It’s just something you’ll have to learn to live with.

[cinnamokittykat]

LONG HAIR KÖNIG ‼️‼️‼️‼️

I desire them both carnally

THE WAY YOU DRAW ALEJANDRO & RUDY IS JUST 😍🫶🥺🫰🥰💯🔥🥵😫💦💦💦👊

Have you drawn Konig & Horangi unmasked. I'd love to see it in your art style

thANK YOU!! i have this wip that i abandoned,,, but it show a little of the face hc i have for them! hopefully i can get another opportunity to draw them unmasked properly lol

[crr0o]

"el lobo siempre cuida a su loba… a su tigre auuuuhh"🐺🖤🐯

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

63 / 2.6k / soap soulmate au, part 12

...

Trapped at the base of the mountain, you spy your window of opportunity to bolt to the treeline. And you take it.

The adrenaline pumping through your body blunts the pain of the crash. You've scarcely made it into the shadow of the enormous fir trees when a bullet shears past your head and splinters a tree branch six inches away from your ear. Shit. Someone saw you.

You sprint as deep as your lungs can carry you. Then you press back into the nearest trunk. Behind you, two pairs of boots stomp through the snow.

"Saw someone come this way," one voice says. It's not KorTac. "Got a runner."

"There," the other voice says. The sound of a rifle sliding past cloth. Their steps get louder and close in on your position. The voices are low, but the snow carries them to you, crisp and clear.

"Can't let this one get away," one of the men says.

"Oh, we won't."

You tear deeper into the trees, weaving between trunks and jumping over fallen branches. Bullets spray out from behind you. One punches through your side. You stumble, fingers brushing the snow, but don't go down. Johnny's voice echoes in your skull. You'd better live.

The two men on your tail follow. They're relentless. It's clear they have no reservations about cutting down a fleeing, unarmed target. You push onwards, your breathing ragged as you run, ignoring the way your every movement sends a wave of pain down your body. You take cover again, this time behind an enormous fallen log. But you know they know where you are.  Behind you, they spread out to circle up and flank you. You grip the shard of glass still in your hand. It's all you have, and it won't be enough.

"Don't try anything," he says. "We've got you now."

Red mist explodes out of his chest. He stumbles and pitches forward to the ground. You don't have time to see where the shot came from. You lurch toward his body, pull the shard of glass across his throat, tear his rifle off him, and return to cover. You look down the scope and search for the other mercenary. You see him taking aim at the one who shot his teammate--Horangi.

Before he can pull the trigger, another single shot rings out from Horang’s rifle. Blood splatters from the man's head, and he goes down.

Behind Horangi, you see two more of them take cover and aim their rifles at the two of you. You press yourself against the fallen trunk, aim, and squeeze the trigger. It takes you more than one squeeze in the haze of adrenaline puppeteering your exhausted body, but you strike one in between the eyes. The other stumbles out of cover to run, and Horangi puts a bullet in his back.

Then the forest goes quiet. Horangi glances back at you over the top of the log. "You alright?" he says.

"Alive." You straighten up, but you don't drop the gun. "Is it clear?"

Horangi glances around "For now," he says. "Let's make ourselves scarce before that changes."

You grip the rifle harder and stare at the roll of zip ties on Horangi's belt. He's your former teammate. He took you prisoner. You let him. Maybe taking what you thought was your only way out is why you see now how things could be different.

Horangi's eyes sharpen. "Careful, rookie," he says, his voice low. "Don't do anything stupid. We're on the same side."

"You're gonna cuff me again."

"That's the idea." Bullets, blood, and shards of wood and needles litter the snow he walks through. "Don't make this hard. I don't want to have to hurt you."

"No. I'm not going back." You widen your stance, pointing the rifle at him.

His eyes narrow. "Careful with that."

You keep your aim steady on him and say nothing.

He watches you, evaluating your grip, the tension in your arms, the cold look on your face. Then he nods toward the bleeding wound on your side. "How long do you think you'll last out here with that?"

"That's not your concern."

"Yeah," he says. "It is."

He regrips his rifle in both hands, shifting his weight. This time, however, he keeps his distance.

"Drop the gun," he says. "Then we'll discuss this without the risk of friendly fire."

You don't back down.

He lets out a short sigh and glances up at the trees. "You really can't just make things easy, huh. You really gonna shoot me?" he says. "After I just saved your life?"

"Yeah."

"You're bluffing."

"I might be," you tell him. "If you wanna take that chance."

He assesses you. A long beat of silence passes.

"That's not like you," he says finally, voice flat. "Your code is quid pro quo. I saved your life. You owe me."

He walks toward you. He's calling your bluff.

You squeeze the trigger. Once, twice. One bullet lodges in his chest plate. The other finds its mark in the joint of his armor--the weak point where chest plate meets shoulder plate. Red sprays out into the gray haze of snow and pines.

He jerks as he takes the shots, curses, and staggers. You're full of nasty surprises today. But his training is the same as yours--when an asset gets mean, KorTac gets worse. He doubles down, pushing himself into a sprint.

You squeeze the trigger again, bullet punching through his armor's elbow joint. Another three pulls produce nothing but empty dry clicks. Shit. He barrels toward you.

You throw the gun aside and reach for the shard of glass, your makeshift knife, but it’s too late. He grabs you, close enough to tear the glass out of your hand, sweep your knees, shove your face into the snow, and force the air out of your lungs with his weight on your back.

Still, you struggle for your freedom, clawing the snow for any kind of grip. Ghost's knee on your back comes dimly to mind.

Before you can get free, Horangi digs his knee into the bullet wound at your side. You bite down on a scream, gritting your teeth against the pain exploding across your body.

"Enough," he says in a low voice. "You're done."

You can barely focus through the pain. Your vision blurs and your muscles tense and twitch blindly against his hold. He lets up the pressure only once the initial wave of pain subsides and you've let out a shuddering gasp.

You lay still in pain for a long moment. When he grabs your hands to cuff you, you strike.

He’s not expecting the elbow to his nose. Then you drive your fist into his kidney--between the panels of his armor--and twist hard.

He grabs you anyway. But you yank your forearm--slicked with blood from your side wound--free from his grip and take off. Blood dots the snow behind you like a trail of scarlet breadcrumbs from the crash site.

You’re on your feet and running through the trees. You’re coasting on adrenaline alone. He’s right at your heels. He catches up.

You both go down hard again, falling through open air for a moment before you hit hard, wet snow-crust. As you struggle, he wraps the cord of a zip tie around one of your wrists and grabs your other. But you slide it free again and dig your red fingers into the snow.

"Just let me go!" you wheeze back at Horangi. "Just say I died in the ambush."

"Hell no. Nothing personal, rookie, but you made your choice. We’re turning you in dead or alive."

The radio on his hip spits and crackles. Warped voices come through. Then real ones in the distance. Shouting. A rough, Scottish brogue. The cold air burns your lungs as you suck it in.

Horangi reaches forward for your other wrist again. You turn and sink your teeth into his gloved hand. He yells. Soap’s voice is nearby. Your vision blurs. The adrenaline is wearing off. You can’t get free to run.

A shout of your name. Close.

"Johnny," you say, your voice a breathless gasp. "Johnny, I'm–"

But Horangi grabs you before you can say anything else. His gloved hand clamps down over your mouth.

"Don't move," Horangi says into your ear. "You move, I put a bullet in his head."

He has to be lying. But you don’t move. You can’t make yourself do it if it means even the slightest chance of putting Soap’s life at risk.

He pulls you up to your knees. You find yourself staring at the rocky side of an eight-foot ledge. No wonder you and Horangi fell so hard. You must’ve tumbled down this drop. If not for the snow cushioning your fall, it would’ve taken you out of commission.

You see Soap coming toward you. Your chest aches with relief before something dawns on you. On your knees, even through your pants, you realize you're not kneeling on just snow. It's ice, not loam, under the layers of powder. Pure ice. The surface of a frozen river.

"Stop!" you shout, seeing Soap rapidly approaching the high bank. "Don't come any closer." The deep, echoing snaps of cracking ice echo around you as if to punctuate your point.

Soap slides to a stop at the edge. His eyes go from the gun at your head straight down to the snow-covered ice. Comprehension dawns on his face. If he drops down to the already-damaged surface below, it will break and plunge all of you into the black water underneath.

His eyes flash to Horangi. “Let her go.”

“Back off,” Horangi says from behind you. “Right now, or I shoot her right here.”

That makes no sense. He’s bluffing, you know it. But you also know Soap won’t risk your life. His expression hardens.

The ice groans again. Your life is on a timer. You can’t outrun or overpower Horangi. You need to find another way.

“Your buyer,” you say lowly to Horangi. “I want to talk to your buyer.”

Horangi's grip on your neck doesn’t loosen. His silence is all the answer you need.

"Call him up. I want to talk to him."

"You're not in any position to negotiate.”

Tension rolls off Soap like a physical force. He’s coiled like a viper. His team approaches around him, all of them trying to analyze the situation. If he weren’t outnumbered, you suspect Soap would rush forward anyway, damn the risks. He looks ready to tear Horangi limb from limb. If he had a clean shot, he’d take it. But he’s not fool enough to give Horangi a reason to hurt you, either. It’s a stalemate.

"You let me talk to him or I'll make sure this ice breaks before either of us make it to shore,” you hiss.

Horangi considers it. You can't give him the time to think his way out of this. You lean your weight onto one knee--putting more pressure onto a smaller surface area of the ice. It cracks again.

“Dammit, don’t!” Soap snaps, taking a step forward. Ghost’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

Another moment of silence. Tense. The cold wind whistles past your ears. You hear the deep groans and snaps as the ice warps.

Then Horangi scoffs. "Still trying to out-bluff me?"

He yanks you back, sliding you toward the shore, trying to keep you from putting weight on the ice. You throw yourself in the opposite direction, slamming yourself back against the cold surface. The crack of pain against your spine reverberates through your entire body.

You try to get to your feet. The crackling sound, like snapping cables, is everywhere. Horangi is cool under pressure, but he holds his shoulders more rigidly than you’ve ever seen him. He walks toward you with the zip tie still in hand.

You struggle to your feet and go at him. You drive your weight into his body and fight like hell to keep you both on the river, where you have leverage. He fights to throw you onto shore. You’re so close to getting away. You just need an opening.

Soap shouts. You don’t hear what he’s saying. Despite your injury, You use every bit of your weight and speed as if to force both of you thought the ice. You keep moving, slipping out of his reach every time he tries to grab hold of you. Every time, the ice and it shifts with a snap, threatening to break and send you both tumbling into the dark water below. In the tangle, you get close enough to grab blindly at his belt and pack. You aim to grab his handgun. Your hand closes around something else--a frag. Almost as good.

You jerk back and hold it up so he can see it. Your breath is shaky now, coming out in uneven puffs. It feels like all the body heat you have left is bleeding out of the wound in your side. But it works as intended. Everyone quiets. Even the ice stops crackling. Horangi’s eyes narrow.

So you pull the pin. You keep your finger on the switch, but you and everyone else know the explosion would blow you, Horangi, and anyone else on the ice to hell.

"Call the buyer," you say quietly. "Or you won't even have a corpse to trade."

He looks at you with a cold, even glare. You know what he's thinking: you might be bluffing, you might not. And after the way you’ve been acting, he isn't willing to bet his life on it.

The cold wind whistles between you and raises goosebumps on your numb skin.

Finally, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He says something into it quietly. Then he looks at you, steps forward, and hands it to you.

You take it. You don't have to tell him to back off--the live grenade in your hand is enough warning for him. He walks backward off the frozen river and back onto shore to give you all the space you’d need to blow yourself up.

As soon the pressure of his weight is off the ice, the creaking ice shifts and settles again. You feel lightheaded with the loss of blood. You sway but manage to keep your balance.

"Hen, please," Soap calls. "Go with him. Just stay off the ice." Never thought he'd be saying this, but he'd rather you be in someone else's custody than dead. He wants you to come to him so badly, but he's much further up the riverbank. There's no way for him to jump down to you without cracking the ice; there's no way for you to get up to him one-handed. You won't be able to climb the icy rock and earth separating you. The only way is downriver, and while Soap's eyes sweep every part of the river in sight, he can't seem to find a solution. When you don't react, he looks to Horangi instead. "Take her off the damn ice!" he shouts.

Horangi crosses his arms and says nothing. The message is clear: he did what he could; you're the one forcing his hand.

You hold the phone up to your ear. To your chilled skin, it's warm to the touch. You hold it with both hands, leaning it against the frag and cupping the other hand around the receiver to catch your voice amidst the wind. You swallow, trying to wet your mouth enough to rasp out a few words. But it's the man on the other end of the line, your buyer, who speaks first.

"Hey, 86." Graves. You can hear him smiling around your old Shadow Company call number. "Heard you're in a bit of a predicament."

...

← previous part / [part 12] / next part →

part 1 / more Soap / masterlist

[goromimii]

frens

[balisonqs]

markings

[yawnderu]

MW2 KorTac and TF141 Twitter | Part XI

ATSV/COD MWII Twitter AU Masterlist

Masked man dick could fix me better than therapy

[cod-dump]

6’0 or above = tall. 6’0 or below = short (Ghost’s rules)

Rudy, 5’9: is short, acts tall without thinking (he’s just chill like that). Has intimidated people taller than him by a single look (Alejandro is the only person not affected by it)

Alejandro, 6’2: is tall, acts tall without thinking (will not abuse his power). “Short people are people too”. Acts like Rudy is taller than him (would die if he actually was)

Roach, 5’8: is short, acts short, watch your shins (and your heels). Would rather do parkour than ask someone for help to get something off the top shelf (has ripped cabinet doors off the hinges)

Ghost, 6’4: is tall, acts tall naturally (will use his tallness against all those below 6’0). Will make short jokes when he feels the need (has gotten bitten by Roach over this)

Price, 6’2 1/2: is tall, acts tall (mostly as an intimidation tactic), switches off the tall act when not on a mission or working (will not abuse his power)

Gaz, 5’11: One inch too short to be tall (according to Ghost). Acts both short and tall (depends on the day/situation). Best of both worlds. Has never abused his power and never will (if Soap was significantly shorter than him he would)

Soap, 5’10: is short (according to Gaz because of Ghost’s bullshit), acts short and tall given the day or situation. Would 100% abuse his power if he was tall

König, 6’10: is tall, acts short without thinking (is used trying to seem smaller than what he actually is). Never has abused his tallness (but he will if he feels the need). Made one short joke (instant regret because it was targeted at Rudy (he survived))

Horangi, 6'2: is tall, acts tall (a conscious decision 80% of the time). Has abused his power but only on people who deserve it (Graves). Makes tall jokes (99.9% are targeted at König)

Farah, 5’3: is short, acts tall when working (naturally). Is not above asking for assistance but will climb the shelves at the grocery store. Very good at climbing (has broken zero cabinet doors)

Alex, 6’1: is tall, acts tall (naturally). Overly eager to help shorter people get things (has been attacked by a feral Roach). Hasn’t abused his power and never will (he’s a good man)

Laswell, 5’8: is short, acts tall (intentional intimidation tactic). Unfazed by short jokes, will ask for assistance, part monkey (is the only person spared by Ghost’s abuse)

Graves, 5’9: is short, actively acts tall whenever he can (insecure). Will get mad at short jokes but plays it off with a smile but you know he’s mad (sensitive)

Nik, 6’3 1/2: is tall, acts tall (chill). “Short people are people too (except Graves)”. Targets Graves (affectionate). Uses short jokes only on tall people (psychological damage + intimidation tactic)

Valeria, 5’6: is short, acts tall (intentional). Makes tall jokes at short people and short jokes at tall people (psychological damage). Will climb for things (and will stab if someone offers help)

[nova-amor]

༘☁︎⋆ ◜ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮? ◞

"eyes forward, pretty girl," he leaned over to whisper in your ear, the warmth of his breath causing heat to rise to your cheeks, your teeth gnawing at the plump flesh of your bottom lip. "keep 'em legs wide open and just relax, baby." his warm hand slipped beneath the fabric of your skirt, calloused finger tips brushing against the lace edges of your underwear.

it was inappropriate— to fuck in a movie theatre was scandalous, definitely against the law and could get you in major trouble if you two were caught. but something about the risk made you grow wetter, adrenaline coursing through your veins as he rubbed at the wet spot forming on your crotch. you tugged the thin blanket a little further up onto your shoulders, providing the perfect barrier to shield your activities from the rest of the theatre patrons.

"if you keep squirming like that, sweetheart, someone's gonna notice," he purred into your ear, a ghost of a lick left on your earlobe as he nudged your underwear to the side. "don't think you want that, do you? or, maybe you do… you want someone to catch us, huh? want someone to see how pathetic and desperate you get for your boyfriend's fingers?"

you shook your head in disagreement, lying to not only him but yourself. struggling to control your breathing pattern as he rubbed tight circles and squares around your clit. your legs twitched, foot tapping against the floor as you fixated your gaze on the movie playing rather than the familiar sweet stretch of your walls engulfing your boyfriend's thick digit.

"breathe f'me, sweetness, don't want you to pass out," he chuckled, curling his finger into your squishy walls. the filthy squelching noises of your sopping cunt were overshadowed by the movie's well-timed soundtrack clips and action sequences. "such a good girl f'me— fuckin' pussy's gushin’ all around me. you like this, don't you? love it when i use you like the slut you are?"

you rested your head on his shoulder, choking down the pathetic moans and whimpers that threatened to escape your lips. he slipped another finger into you and then another, plowing three fingers deeper and deeper inside you— stretching you out beyond your usual limit. you were growing delirious, hips bucking up relentlessly to chase the sweet release building at the pit of your stomach.

"gonna cum f'me, pretty girl? can feel your walls startin' t' milk my fingers," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, hooking his fingers into your sensitive g-spot. the heel of his palm dug into your clit, each rut of his fingers into you stimulating your sensitive nub. "that's it, baby, fuck yourself on my fingers— fuckin' cum around my fingers."

black spots flashed across your eyes, your orgasm almost completely blinding you. your hips stuttered, body convulsing in the cushions of the theatre seat— there certainly would be a wet patch on the seat after the movie was done.

"such a good girl, you did so good f'me," his voice was distant, your head practically in the clouds as he retracted his fingers from deep inside you. he brought his fingers up to your lips, the lights of the movie causing his fingers to glimmer with the clear sheen of your release. "now open that pretty mouth and clean my fingers f'me— that's it, be a good girl and suck. maybe i'll give you some dick in the parking lot as a treat later."

satoru gojo, takuma ino, connie springer, zeke yeagar, natsuo todoroki, shota aizawa, kei tsukishima, tōru oikawa, kim hong-jin, gary sanderson

[quozacheese]

cryptid bfs

it makes me so happy to see all the eldritch könig fanart/fic ❤️

[ghostismybbygorl]

Here what i think the call of duty civvy clothes would be

Ghost

Definitely tech-ware style and he's a boujee motherfucker too. everyone thinks he's very plain and simple until he rolls up in the Balenciaga shoes and antisocial social club hoodie

Soap

👏🏻A👏🏻GRANOLA👏🏻HEAD👏🏻

He goes for comfort, flannels baggy pants he definitely the type to wear chacos with socks and pants

Gaz

I feel like he dress very indie and skater guy type vibes

Price

RUSTIC DAD CLOTHES

Laswell

She'd definitely be like chic mom style clothes. She likes to look goid but also be comfortable

Alejandro

SEXY COWBOY MOTHER FUCKERS AND I WONT CHANGE MY OPINION JUST HIM PULLIN UP IN THIS ATTIRE MY PANTIES ARE ON THE FLOOR

Rudy

He'd kinda dresses chill casual more for comfort than style

Graves

Just your average cardboard cutout of your southern redneck. And he only wears pit vipers

König

I see him as very cottage core vibes. He wears ugly sweaters that his grandma makes him and majority of his pants are corduroys that are short for him due to his height

horangi

He has a very sleek very professional style and of course he's got them red bottom dress shoes, a rolex, all the bougee shit